Chapter Text
Sally has been anxious lately, plagued by occasional nightmares. She blames it on failures in her personal life: the breakup with Anderson six months ago, followed by a string of unremarkable dates. Nothing serious has come of them.
[Reader:] Seriously? Nightmares—over a few bad dates? How old are you, girl?
[Author:] She’s a grown woman, thank you. But psychological realism isn’t the aim here. Sometimes deliberate distortion—
[Reader:] Hold it. I meant you, not the character. Oh well, never mind. You clearly graduated school and passed your literature exams. You just didn’t learn much from them.
She’s cautiously optimistic about her current almost-boyfriend. But thanks to Sherlock’s escalating rudeness—and the relentless demands he’s placed on the team—she’s had to cancel three dates in a row this week.
[Reader:] That’s just ridiculous. Where are her boundaries? Why can’t she say no?
[Author:] The story’s not here to answer that. What matters is her lack of agency—in the broader sense.
Now, she hopes to finally meet him on Sunday. But this time, he says he’s busy. “Probably with his family,” she mutters. Oh no. Not another married guy. Determined not to let the weekend go to waste, Sally heads to a shopping mall on her own, even though shopping alone rarely yields anything memorable to her. Perhaps even the least memorable companions would be better—indeed, the most durable buying in her life came from an outing with such company—a fox pendant, still looped to every new phone she buys, without ever knowing quite why—though let’s be honest, knowing was never her job. She was created to furnish the protagonist with five extra minutes of brilliance. And that time was not different.
A regular meeting of Lestrade’s unit. She stays with her report, though the content has long blurred in her memory. What remains is the interruption—the freak’s voice, slicing through—and the tirade that followed. As if the paper in her hands is a cue card, turned toward him for clarity.
“Right, stop. This isn’t amateur radio. You’ve listed posture, coat snagging, and a lavender scent. None of it is actionable. It’s noise. The cleaner’s observation is vague, the florist’s uncertain. Are you auditioning for ambiguity?”
Sally moves her papers slowly but suddenly lets them fall to the table. However, the freak continues, perfectly timed, perfectly indifferent.
“The coat, the umbrella, the perfume—irrelevant unless tied to movement. You’ve failed to establish trajectory. Your report is not a map, it’s a maze. Was the florist close enough to see the wrist? That’s the only answer I need. Not a novel. Call and ask. Now.”
The fluorescent light hums overhead. She is just pulling her phone from her pocket when he strides over—drawn to the fox charm. The next moment it shimmers in his hand, unhooked from the phone case with a Harry Houdini-like sleight of hand.
“Resin. Surface matte, but uneven—suggests oxidation over several years. Nylon cord frayed, retied multiple times. Not new. Not recent. A fox mask—kitsune, Japanese myth. Trickster. Illusion. Though this one’s anime-branded, mass-produced, probably dumped on the £1 charms counter when it failed to sell. That’s what happens when pop culture toys with folklore without simplifying it enough to be profitable. Still, it caught your eye. Not flashy, not loud—just quietly odd among the glittering nonsense. You examined them all, didn’t you? Carefully. Why? Let me guess.
“You weren’t familiar with the place. You weren’t invited. Your classmates mentioned the trip in passing, not to you, just aloud. You followed. When they scattered inside, you lingered near the entrance, at the cheap trinkets. Waiting. Hoping someone would notice you’d fallen behind. You couldn’t stand there forever. So you bought something. And when someone finally looked back, you convinced yourself they’d come for you. Not just to leave. It’s not the mask you’re holding onto. It’s the moment you thought you weren’t alone.”
He lets the charm dangle from the cord, watching it sway like a pendulum. Then, with a sudden flick, he tosses it upward and catches it mid-flight, squeezing tight—as if the charm had wings, and they’d just been crushed.
“Self-deception, Donovan. You don’t need a trickster to fool you. You manage perfectly well on your own.”
And this time, he probably didn’t even mean Anderson—just her habit of letting witnesses slip past her, too easily fooled to catch what mattered.
Without looking at her, Sherlock walks a few steps toward the edge of the conference room. The pendant swings from his fingers. Then he turns, closes the distance to arm’s length, and stretches out his hand—just to let the pendant drop. Her eyes track it to the floor, but her arms stay folded, her jaw locked. It lands softly between them.
After a beat, she steps forward and picks it up. No glance. No comment. She doesn’t try to reattach it to the phone. Just folds it into her pocket.
[Reader:] Nice attempt at giving your protagonist a backstory through a performance that mocks deduction. Or has your Sherlock just crawled out of the cave described by Plato? I hope he brushed the dust off his coat, at least. Still—it’s refreshing, somehow.
As expected, the visit to the mall doesn’t live up to much. In the fifth clothing shop she’s entered, empty-handed, she spots Molly browsing racks with her boyfriend—the one who uncannily resembles Sherlock. Molly’s holding up item after item: a neon jacket, a pair of ripped jeans, something in leopard print. One by one, he humors her. Every choice more absurd. Every piece something the real Sherlock would never touch. Sally nearly walks over to say hello, but something in the scene—its cartoonishness, or maybe its accuracy—makes her veer away and leave the shop quickly.
[Reader:] Oh, come on. You’re seriously going there? Overexplaining like your life depends on it? I get that something’s off. …Though yeah, I suppose I didn’t think through what would actually happen when the showrunners paired Molly with a Sherlock clone. Honestly, did they expect it to go smoothly forever?
Down in the food court, she runs into Anderson. With a woman. His wife, as she soon learns. He doesn’t just greet her—he introduces them with casual politeness, then invites her to join them in the nearby pizzeria.
“Probably the best pizza in London,” the wife smiles.
[Reader:] Wait. I don’t buy this version of Anderson. Even if he never cared about her—even if—he should at least be awkward.
[Author:] That’s intentional. Anderson’s reaction isn’t meant to be realistic—it’s symbolic. Sally doesn’t just play a character here. She reflects a broader condition: the erosion of presence, of narrative weight. When someone becomes invisible, the world stops stumbling around them. It passes through.
[Reader:] Of course. Allegory. Again.
The week had been brutal, and the weekend hadn’t offered much relief. On Monday morning, Sally receives a message from her almost-boyfriend:
“What about this evening?”
She replies too quickly:
“Maybe.”
The meeting at work is set for 8 AM, and nothing suggests the day will end on time. Damn freak. Why did he have to come back from the dead? And Watson—he’s no better. Good for him, hiding behind his happy marriage like it’s a temple of love. But what sins did they commit to be left alone with the rage of Sherlock Holmes, exiled from his best friend’s perfect new life?
[Reader:] W-wait. What? When did Watson kick him out? Why?
[Author:] You remember—he reappeared after vanishing for years without telling anyone he was alive. Why shouldn’t Watson protect his… how did you put it… boundaries?
[Reader:] Are you kidding me? That’s your whole explanation?
[Author:] Well… you did scold Sally for poor boundary management. But Watson—wasn’t his refusal rather more justified than skipped brunches and overtime shifts? Do you remember the scene where Sherlock came back dressed as a taxi driver? I mean, faking your death is one thing—but that return? That was just—
[Reader:] A waiter.
[Author:] What?
[Reader:] He played a waiter, not a taxi driver.
[Author:] Oh! You’re absolutely right. Your sharp eye is—
[Reader:] Enough. I knew it. I knew this was AI-generated garbage.
[Author:] Yes, I didn’t rewatch the series—I don’t recall every detail. But that’s actually the point. Sally never knew them to begin with. She’s not a confidante, just a colleague catching gossip after the fact. Her knowledge is partial, secondhand—like mine.
The team clusters inside Scotland Yard’s conference room—mugs in hand, files scattered, postures slouched with fatigue. Sally leans against the back wall, arms crossed, pretending not to check the time. And honestly, today it’s not easy. She’s nervous—and not just about the likely delay of her date night. The source of her irritation feels closer, more immediate.
Then she realizes.
Click–clack.
Click–clack.
The sound was louder than the action. Like a child’s toy echoing inside her ribcage.
It’s hard to argue with Sherlock about her detective instincts—she really hadn’t been quick to notice what had changed. As usual, he’s standing by the window, coat unbuttoned, gaze drifting now and then to the street below. Sally has to sneak glances at her watch; Sherlock is free to look wherever he pleases. He can turn his back mid-conversation. He can flick that lighter—where did it even come from?—empty of fuel, full of noise.
Click–clack.
Click–clack.
And as usual, they have only one option: tolerate it. At best, Lestrade might intervene—maybe suggest they all chip in for a fidget spinner.
That time, she answered a bit louder—when Sherlock, as always, interrupted her just as she’d begun presenting the detailed report. The same report that had cost her Friday’s date.
“Victim’s husband says he was home. No inconsistencies.”
Sherlock scoffs.
“Well, if the husband says so, Donovan, I suppose we should all just stop thinking entirely.”
“Sherlock—” Lestrade barely whispers, sounding tired.
Sally can’t help but imagine that Lestrade’s saying her name instead—with that same low, weary gentleness. And before she even realizes it, she feels a flicker of relief. No wonder. A quiet appeal like that would be enough to calm anyone after one of Sherlock’s signature tirades. In fact, it already has—even if it existed only in her imagination. But for the one it was actually meant for, it does nothing. She’s certain.
“Honestly, it’s astonishing how much crime goes unsolved in this city when the collective mental effort here barely surpasses that of a houseplant.”
Silence.
“Enough,” Lestrade says at last, as if the word required a mental sound-check before being released. His voice, still calm and measured, carries something new in its tone. But Sherlock doesn’t stop.
“Why?” His voice is flat—unlike the lighter in his hand, which clicks with theatrical insistence. “You tolerate it.”
Click–clack.
“Always.”
Click–clack.
But before Lestrade can react, Sherlock turns away and leaves the cabinet. Sally glances at Molly—she is biting her lip but releases it as though she senses she is being observed. When Lestrade turns away to stare at the semi-closed door, Anderson’s lips barely move, but the sound escapes—a quiet, controlled “Yes.” His hands, however, tighten into fists, his elbows bending slightly, a pose crackling with the energy of a stadium fan after the first goal.
They finish their work on time—perhaps for the first time since Watson left—and when her almost-boyfriend reminds her of their plan to spend the evening together, Sally says yes. She enters the subway during rush hour. Normally, she stays late, caught in the gravitational pull of Sherlock Holmes, who always needs somewhere to deposit his arrogance. She’s almost forgotten how crowded it can be outside the orbit of an abandoned genius. In the crush of bodies, she can’t even reach her phone—only squeeze the fox charm inside her pocket. Annoying thoughts rush in to fill the silence.
That empty lighter...
Something strange surfaces. Those frantic clicks—she now sees them not as a reaction to the team’s “uselessness,” but as the root of his fury. Her thoughts aren’t far from the classic victim’s: eager to rationalize the narcissist’s behavior. But why doesn’t she feel relief?
If anything, her anxiety rises.
Weird words bubble up from the back of her mind—kein Alkohol, kein Nikotin—followed by the refrain’s explosion: BENZIN!
As a cadet, she dreamed of a big career in the police, powering herself through hard rock and metal. Rammstein was her fuel. She even tried to learn German. She didn’t learn much, but she still remembers that kein means no. Alcohol and nicotine sound the same in both languages, so the meaning hits her all at once: Sherlock is too extraordinary to be satisfied by casual addictions. Not alcohol. Not nicotine. Not even the psychological suffering of her, or Anderson, or Molly.
What if the thing he longs for—the thing he cannot get—is simply...
Fire?
Just that.
[Reader:] Come on, that has nothing to do with her! You just projected your own Rammstein-flavored nostalgia onto a random character! You can’t be that obvious.
[Author:] Obvi obvi they be tryna copy…
[Reader:] No. Please. Not that song. Not that silly song that’s playing from every café, every phone, every passing car.
[Author:] Why silly? It’s ironic. It’s proof that the traditional K-pop empowerment anthem is starting to deconstruct itself. The success of Allday Project’s “Famous” proves the same thing.
[Reader:] So you’re deep into K-pop now. Then why Rammstein? If you wanted to be edgy in school, Tokio Hotel would’ve suited you better.
[Author:] I was a fan of both, actually.
[Reader:] Good for you. But we’re talking about fictional characters. You can’t just assign them vivid, random traits without laying groundwork.
[Author:] I did lay groundwork. Sally briefly recalled The Sisters of Mercy’s “Temple of Love”.
[Reader:] Did she? Oh… well. Technically, yes. But it still feels so… artificial. Like it was stitched together from keywords and vibes. And The Sisters of Mercy didn’t play hard rock. Or metal. Next time, maybe verify your sources. Or… your dataset?
Anyway, Sally spends a pleasant evening—and night—with her almost-boyfriend at his place, which suggests he’s probably not married. This happy discovery almost lifts the looming sense of disaster that had crept in during her subway ride. Almost. But that night, she has another nightmare.
She sits up and opens her eyes to a strange sound.
Click–clack.